That bright moon is the place where my dreams are;
Flowers and love and joy born of true desire;
A smile on each dream, travelling afar
To caress my heart’s squalid, human mire.
But those dreams! They always crumble to dust,
One calling the other a liar,
In time and fate’s consuming pyre,
Love killed by flowers and joy by futile lust.
And look!
Look!
O look, my moon is on fire!
The rain falls, clouds gather,
Trees whisper their wind-talk;
The rain falls, drops; drops fall;
Hear their play on the walk?
Each drop, a tidal wave,
That churns remembered past;
Each drop begs each dried tear,
Each faded smile to last.
Time’s brought back with each drop;
It hasn’t passed; it hasn’t died!
They said! “Time cures sorrow.”
Now each drop says: “They lied.”
The tangled webs of cruel death and life;
The neutral shades of colour, black and white;
The bondage of hope and sacrifice;
The present darkness, and the absent light.
The horrible sun, the vain, dirty moon;
This sluttish earth, that lying, calling sky;
The maddening silence, that haunting tune;
The things that crawl, the wretched things that fly;
The prostitute Love, her diseased pimp Hate;
Bliss of oblivion, horrors of fame,
The bastards of destiny or of fate,
Be they anonymous or with a name.
The laugh of happiness or sadness’ cries;
This auctioned world of promises and lies.
Hearts Still Care 
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